


You are an Animal.

by Ithika



Category: Black Sails
Genre: A bit of a what was going on in her head exercise, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:50:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9434405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithika/pseuds/Ithika
Summary: The reflections of Eleanor Guthrie on her erstwhile lover.





	

He was not a difficult man to make into a monster. All she had needed to do, in the cold, dank walls of her cell, was close her eyes. Sit on that hard wooden bench that passed for a bed, cast her mind back: Charles Vane covered in the blood of other men; Charles Vane smirking as he announced his return to Nassau with the slaughter of Hornigold’s crew; Charles Vane drunk in the inn, brawling for what appeared only to be the joy of it; her father, beaten, bloodied. Crucified. He was chaos, violence, everything that made Nassau incompatible with the rest of the civilised world. Truly, he was what should come to mind when honest Englishmen and women picture the pirate menace the Crown would have believe was coming for them all. 

But the _nights._ Night, or whatever passed for it in her windowless, breathless cell: the time when the prison around her grew quiet. She would huddle beneath her threadbare, filthy blanket, close her eyes and try to find rest. Then, it took more effort to maintain the image. When all was still and silent, different memories stubbornly brought themselves forward in her mind. Stubbornly, in defiance of what she wished - even her memories were so very like him. His touch had always been gentle, and her treacherous mind would not let her forget it. Would not let her forget how those hands would run over her pale skin with a gentleness she thought he ought not possess; how his eyes, so often hard and cold as ice, would thaw as he looked at her, and only her. At night, she remembered Ned Low, remembered all the problems he’d taken away simply because they were problems for _her_. She hated the night. 

* * *

 

And now _he_ was in Nassau again, and so was she. That old question returned to her, when Woodes left, and she was alone with her thoughts. She had never been proud of the ugly thought that surfaced following the worst of their spats, and she wasn’t proud of it now, though her blood stirred at the realisation she would finally know the answer. 

_'What would he look like?_    
_Stripped of his power, chained… caged?'_

A question she had regretted every time it surfaced in her mind, before. Even now, even with the hatred she’d so carefully nurtured towards him, her eagerness to learn the answer left her feeling somehow diminished, as though the thought were beneath her. She hated it - she owed him nothing, she insisted to herself. Not one scrap of respect, of compassion, of love. She ought never to have loved him - she had never planned to. That she knew he abhorred the idea of a cage above all things should not move her to anything but _satisfaction_. The words rang hollow in her mind even as her footsteps echoed against the cold walls of the fort. 

The door opened, and he looked at her, and the answer was: he looked the same. 

The proud angles of his face were not softened in the deep shadow of his cell; the hard lines of his shoulders not bowed by the weight of the chains that bound him. He barely looked as though he’d been in a fight. Though of course, guiltily, she’d _expected_ that. Expected it even as she’d cleaned Woodes’ cuts and grazes, soothed his hurts. Her new lover was a lot of things, but Eleanor knew in her heart that there was no man alive that was truly a match for Charl– for _him_. She could give him that. He had _earned_ that. It was not a compliment, she reminded herself: an animal fights without restraint, not a man.

He watched her approach, silent, and the story of the monster she’d been so careful to build over all these months wavered and shimmered like a mirage with every step. Before the reality of him it was a feeble thing, even though she knew it was built of truths; because she knew too much of the other side of him to will it all away. She knew no small number of those terrible deeds had been done in her name as surely as if she’d stood by his side as he did them. 

She still felt naked under his gaze; a girl. A child raw and new under the weight of those wild blue eyes that seemed somehow to always see the very core of her. _Damn_ him - and she knew, truly, that this course was the only course. ' _As long as he is alive, you cannot succeed.'_ That, perhaps, was true, but it was not the deepest truth. One man could not forever forestall the will of empires. ' _As long as he is alive, I will not be free of him._

_And so I am resolved_.' 


End file.
